Madame Giry

It had been three days. Three uneventful days, that should therefore have been filled with peace and level-headedness, had my life been normal.

Three days that I suffered, glancing over my shoulder at every turn and investigating my closet every night. I did not dare let Meg out of my vision, nor did I approach the rafters or the darker corners of the Opera. I stayed in the light, and in the company of other people, who feared the Ghost in all their naïveté and thought they understood why I feared him as well.

It was the fourth day that M LaBrant called me into his office.

"Look at this," he insisted, jovial and crimson-cheeked beneath his white moustache. "Our Phantom fellow remembers you."

My heart thumped loudly in my chest, and I wondered if he could hear it. "I want nothing to do with your superstitions. Good day, Monsieur."

"No, no Madame, please…I think he'd be pleased if you were to read this."

His request released my reservation. Hesitantly I took the note from him, expertly disguising my unease as impatience.

"My gracious manager, I will take this opportunity to thank you for your excellent choice of a ballet mistress. Her reinstatement and promotion is well-deserved. And now, onto much more exciting matters—particularly the travesty we theatre-owners call the brass ensemble."

I would not read anymore. I handed him back the note without meeting his eyes, busying myself with my child, but I felt his questioning gaze upon me.

"A great deal has happened since you were here last," he said. "Besides the obvious and unfortunate passing of Madame Yvette, I am sure you have heard of the great Willem di Renaldi."

I nodded slightly.

"It seems our Ghost hasn't a liking for him as much as I have, but the remarkable tenor's been bringing in loads of money…and that appeases O.G. more than anything else, as we well know."

Indeed.

"Monsieur LaBrant," I interrupted, "I have students to attend to."

The manager nodded, all business for a half a moment. "Of course. Give my regards to La Sorelli, would you? And tell her those stretches you have them do are working in her favour." He winked, and chuckled happily.

I caught his meaning, and gave him a full glare of disgust. Things had not changed since I had been here last. Erik was still greedy, LaBrant was still a womaniser, and Sorelli was still a sleaze. It was a wonder Erik liked him so much; for all the reason he ever once invoked before taking a man's life, LaBrant should have been fit for his lasso long ago.

I turned to leave his office, but he called after me. "Madame Giry…I have a favour to ask of you."

"What is it?" I sighed, exasperated.

He slowly fingered a lone envelope and smiled at it before glancing at me again. "Could you kindly take this letter to the seamstresses? They are located in the north wing, in the old ballet quarters."

I furrowed my brow and took the letter from him.

"You do recall where that is, do you not?"

I did not even grant him a nod. "You would do well to remember that I have not been gone so long."

He smiled beneath the white hair of his upper lip. "Thank you, Madame."

Without another word, clutching the envelope in one hand and my daughter in the other, I disappeared through the door. I did not want to know his business with the seamstresses; I did not want to do him any favours. I especially did not want to visit any part of the opera house that demanded distance and solitude.

The marriage of distance and solitude was a deadly union, of course.

Meg was asleep, regardless of my brisk pace. I had admonished myself time after time for bringing her here, for it was no longer myself that I worried for. There was nothing that could keep me from this place any longer. But clearly it was stupid and dangerous to have brought my daughter into this mess with me.

What else could I have done?

The dusty gas lights above seemed to lesson in luminosity as the corridors stretched further and further from the stage and lobby. Sounds eventually diminished, and all I heard were the quick, steady cracks of my feet against the wood floor. The north wing was approaching. I quickened my stride, eagre to find myself back into the company of other people.

A set of double-doors loomed in front of me. They loomed, indeed, plainly because of my own anxiety. I hesitated, hearing no sounds from within to calm my fretful wits, and opened them.

The hallway opened up into a great quarter, which was neatly separated into eight stations; each was filled with racks of flowing cloth of every texture and colour, and yards of ribbon and rope spiralled around great poles. Sketchbooks lay open, next to spinning wheels with half-spun costumes and mannequins hung with measuring tape. Eight cots, eight vanities, and eight desks sat unoccupied.

The whole quarter was dark. The seamstresses were not here.

I glared at the note and cursed M LaBrant through a groan for sending me to this quarter so carelessly. Spinning on my heel, I made toward the doors—which shut, of a ghostly accord, in front of me.

I paused, sucking back my breath.

Only the lamp above the doors was lit. I huddled within the light, fervently pondering the suspiciously-orchestrated convenience of the vacant quarter and LaBrant's oily smile—and the Phantom's silence thus-far. The envelope I held was entirely blank, except…I held it up closely to the light, my eyes studying the small words written in red at the top: Thank you, my good manager.

It was him, and it was a trap. With my teeth I clamped the edge of the envelope, and I tore the top from my mouth. One-handed, trembling, I shook the note out of the remainder of the envelope and straightened it against the door.

Five words, in red.

Welcome back, my curious Madeleine.

I flung the parchment to the floor and whipped around, staring about madly. One-by-one, the lanterns at each station were internally touched by a glow, and as the long room was teasingly illuminated, my eyes strained to study the appearance of a black shadow toward the end.

The shadow moved, slowly, in my direction. The dim light revealed his black cravat and sienna vest, and the glowing white leather of his mask. My lips fell apart as a soundless gasp escaped my throat. His appearance was as tall and unapproachable as it had always been, with thick black hair oiled well and slicked behind his ears, and his olive skin flickered between faint golden light and fleeting shadows.

I felt the hard wood of the door press against my shoulders. Without realising it, I had backed away from him.

His storming blue-green eyes were not watching me, though. My mind fought desperately to determine where his gaze landed, and just as he stopped, inches from my arms, I understood: he was staring at Meg.

My arms did not tighten around her as they should have. My whole body was paralysed with an unnamed emotion as my eyes remained glued to his forme. His lips drew in steady breaths as he stared at the little golden-haired child, and he held out his arms in a slight, rounded shape.

I did not think of what he was implying; I only stared at him, all rational thoughts having been abandoned to horrific observation. His physical appearance was the same, and surely he was the same soul. Having known him since he was only a child, and that he cared for me, nature told me that I should not fear him. But nature was a foul perspective after all of the wisdom and experience I had gained from those years, which now begged of me to turn around and flee his presence.

My horrible mistake of returning to the Opera Populaire was at last clear to every aspect of my being.

"Is this his child?" Every nerve in my body hummed at the first hint of his impossibly deep, carefully administered baritone.

I felt my head nod.

His arms were still open in a receiving gesture. Before I could decipher what his intentions were, he had slipped his gloved hands into my grasp and closed them around Meg's little forme.

"No," I whispered, tightening my grip on her, and my mind cleared instantly at the almost-feel of his hands, and his sudden reality.

His hands jerked back. He looked at me for the first time, and my breath caught at his deep green, troubled gaze. "Madeleine, don't fear me."

Something in my resolve began to weaken at the plea in his voice—he was yet that same broken boy I had left. Slowly, I released my fierce hold on Meg's little body, and relinquished her into his unsure hands. His mouth opened in something that could not honestly be called a smile, and he gently held her before him. Worry pounded within my heart, but my mind began to calm as I watched him handle her with greater care than he had ever handled me.

"Her name is Meg," I whispered.

He cautiously pressed her back into my arms, and I held her protectively. "I will not let my anger rule me in her case. You and your daughter will always be safe here." His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, and the words in his eyes reminded me just how much he wished he could touch me.

I nodded my gratitude, but could find nothing to say.

The Phantom took a step back, and then another, before turning around and slowly vanishing into the shadowed recesses of the room.

I stood frozen for a half of a minute before flinging the doors open and running through the dark corridor, my heart's racing rhythm accompanying my every step. And with every step, I cursed myself for behaving in such a childish, frightened manner, and not simply walking from that place with my chin high and strides sure and a complete façade of control.

It didn't stop me from running, of course.

…

LaBrant

I did hope he had no ill-intent with the woman.

I sighed, twirling my glasses about the surface of my desk. It had been his demand that I send her off to the seamstresses' quarters with the note, and I had not asked what was in it, or why.

The Ghost had always been a bit of a fascination of mine. I had only been the manager of the Opera Populaire for three years when the first signs of him began to show themselves. For the most part, he was agreeable, albeit mischievous. There were always those times when he would grow restless and terrorise the residents, especially our leading tenor, but it wasn't often that I would categorise him as dangerous.

Except, of course, when he was angry.

And he didn't seem to like construction teams.

I chuckled.